


Easy

by carryonstarkid



Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: F/M, Mutual Pining, Really just about the slowest burn you've ever read, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-09
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2020-10-13 15:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20584541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carryonstarkid/pseuds/carryonstarkid
Summary: "What is your objective with this one?""They are not gonna kiss until I hit 400k"





	1. Sweet Music

“Lady Penelope!”

Of all the sounds in the world—rain against brick in the spring, the purr of a masterfully built engine, the hum of a well tuned cello gliding along a Bach—the sound of her own name is undoubtably, unavoidably her favorite. Perhaps that is why she so thoroughly delights in these events, the red carpet beneath her designer shoes, her name called out dozens of times from behind a sea of sparkling lenses. The pop of the P, the eloquence of the N, the lilt of the L. It always feels so round and regal, ending in the same way it began, all of it wrapped up in four neat syllables and laced in a ribbon named Lady.

It satisfies some deep down need of hers, hearing it on the lips of other people. The need to charm and be charmed. The need to laugh and have everyone around her join in. It is far from ladylike to crave the spotlight, but there are no rules saying that one cannot bask in a spotlight that is already shining.

“Lady Penelope! Who are you wearing?”

Click, click, click. Zeus has nothing on her smile, the way it strikes a wave of flashes without so much as an effort on her part. “_Amore Lento_.” Her voice, like gold. “A quaint little Italian designer out of Rome of whom no one has heard today, and whom everyone will be wearing tomorrow.”

Click, click, click. “And the jewels, Lady Penelope?”

She ever so delicately turns towards the stars, brings a ringed hand to her collar. “On loan from the Duchess of Sussex, of course.”

Click, click, click. “Lady Penelope, who is your guest tonight?”

“Now I know that this is not the usual beat for The Times, but certainly even a hard hitting news analyst such as yourself knows a Tracy brother when they see one.”

And if it was madness before, it is chaos now, the clicks too fervent to count. Reporters lean over velvet ropes, just to get a closer shot, just to get a piece of the Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward and the newest love that hangs on her arm. She lends them another laugh (because she has always taken her best pictures while in the midst of laughter) and returns to leaning into her date for the evening, giggling and swooning in his companionship.

“I’m sorry,” she tells them all, her name now indiscernible among the layers of shouting and calling, each of them desperate for their next headline. “But we really must be going, I am certain that my tardiness would go unappreciated.”

Which somehow sparks an impossibly louder roar from the crowd as she walks away arm in arm with a boy she has known since birth. She feeds them a coy arch of her brow as she leaves, hips swaying, endlessly poised. Class defined. If ever there has been a reporter who was certain that they had the upper hand on her, they were irrefutably and unabashedly incorrect.

It is not until the two of them are out of earshot—not until she has taken in every last drop—that she finally lets her shoulders fall, brings her tone back down to a level that only a select few people have ever heard. “I really do appreciate you coming along with me tonight,” she says. “I know that it can all be a bit overwhelming.”

Scott wears the look of a man who has never once been overwhelmed. “Earlier today I was about a hundred feet away from the mouth of an active volcano,” he tells her. “Comparatively, ravenous reporters are a walk in the park.”

The two of them walk along, dignified in all of the ways that their fathers taught them. The eldest and the only, arm and arm, born representatives of old money and new. “Although, some might say that the two are not as different as one might initially think,” she says. “Fiery, explosive, not altogether very pleasant…” 

“Nuh-uh. Don’t even try it, Lady P,” he says. “I’ve known you long enough—you were eating out of their hands just as much as they were eating out of yours. You _live_ for that kind of attention.”

“You always did think you were the smartest person in the room, Scott,” she tells him. “And I say that with all of the affection in my soul, but I feel it is my duty to inform you that, in fact, John has always had you beat.”

When they finally make it past the great, wooden doorway, they are able to surpass security, already cleared by the power of Penelope’s name. She is a study in elegance as they stride through a decorated foyer, and she knows with every ounce of confidence that she is made to be here. That she exists as the centerpiece to all of the world’s grand staircases, painted ceilings, and golden chandeliers.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Scott says. “I’ll be the first to admit that John’s got me beat—part of his… I guess we’ll call it _nerdish charm_.”

“Goodness, must we call it that?”

“Unless you’ve got a better word for all of his _Johnness_.”

“Unfortunately nerdish charm does sum it up fairly well.”

“Unfortunate, for sure,” says Scott. “And while we’re on the subject, remind me again why you brought me to this shindig. Isn’t this usually his gig?”

Click, click, click. The photographers wait for her inside the door as well, calmer than the line of cameras outside, but just as hungry for a piece of her. A piece of him with her. Penelope’s instincts take over, and her own hand slides down Scott’s arm until it is interlaced with his, artificial smile on her perfectly plump lips. “Well of course I asked him,” she says, just below her breath. “But despite my greatest wishes and the exorbitant amount of money I offered him, John reminded me that, in fact, he is not actually able to leave low-Earth orbit at my every beck and call.”

Click, click, click. “You offered John money to escort you to a charity gala?”

Click, click, click. “There was no shortage of clever remarks made about how he was not able to be bought.”

Click, click, click. “You do know that John is a multi-billionaire, right? Like, not even as a Tracy. John himself is worth billions of theoretical dollars.”

Click, click, click. “He did remind me of that fact, yes.”

These reporters do not call out her name and so she gets bored rather quickly. She did, after all, have a purpose for her attendance tonight, and the sooner she finishes her work, the sooner she can play. She begins to lead Scott away again, and he is ever so excellent at following her.

As they make their way into the shadows of the night’s venue, a set of memorized blueprints begin to run through her mind, line by line, sketch by sketch. Dinner and dancing will be held in the North ballroom, located on the first level. There’s a garden to the rear of the estate where lovers, dignitaries, and businessmen alike are all certain to make their respective exchanges. All of this is directly opposite from where she begins her evening: the South Wing.

In all of her determination, she almost forgets about Scott’s presence entirely. “Well, good to know that I’m your second choice. And that I’m not getting paid.”

And how rude of her, to have neglected her date, even if only for a moment. “Oh, Scott,” she says, turning back to him. “Rest assured, you are never my second choice.” 

All it takes is the lightest touch of her fingertips on his chest, sending him down, down, down the corridor and pinning him tight against a richly paneled wall that lacks the same decor as the rest of the party. Shadow washes over them and the musical beginnings of a grand event fade into the backs of their minds. She can see it in his eyes as she walks her fingers up his tie—the way she can charm him without the effort, in that same way she’s ever charmed anyone. For all their years acting as deeply important friends to one another, Scott still can’t quite help himself from falling just a little bit in love with Lady Penelope. 

Even in heels, she has to pop up onto her toes to reach him. Leaning, leaning. Close in that way she’s only ever been with him. Her breath falls along his neck, and she smiles. “I also asked Virgil.” There’s an undeniable delight in her voice. Satisfaction. Tease. “You’re firmly third.”

He laughs at this and knocks her back to a reasonable and distinctly un-Tracy-like height. She lands two solid pats to his lapel before starting further into the shadows. “Do stay put, darling,” she calls over her shoulder. “There’s a nearby camera _desperately _in need of disabling and it’s best they don’t see your face when they rewatch the footage, wondering how everything they’ve ever known or loved fell to pieces.”

His head lands back against the wall with the rest of him, looking towards God, or his mother, or whoever else might be able to grant some level of etherial mercy. He doesn’t seem to be very picky about it. “You enjoy this, don’t you?”

The heels are quick to come off, hanging from her fingers as she tiptoes across chilled tile. “Which part?” she says. “My covert shenanigans under the guise of elegant parties, or my playing to your overwhelming infatuation with me despite our rampant incompatibilities?”

“Overwhelming, huh?” he says. “You always did know how to cut right to the heart of it, Lady P.”

And then it’s her turn to laugh—a round, dignified sound that echoes down the hallway. “You boys always make it too easy, wearing them upon your sleeves in that way you do.”

Her stockings slip and stretch against marble, so she peels them off, leaves them lingering loosely behind in her path. Then her earrings, the necklace, the rings—although these are laid very carefully along some ornate moulding, as it would be very rude indeed to return them after they have been scratched or otherwise scuffed. In an ideal world, she could tie her hair back as well, but her current situation of bobby pins and hairspray makes that next to impossible, so she’ll just have to make do.

It is through a highly specialized combination of calisthenics, technological competence, and a handful of other classified details that Penelope is able to blind the only camera of the night that she does not pose for. She takes a moment to reflect upon all of the exceptionally spectacular acts for which she will never be known, and allows herself to pity the common man for all of his ignorance.

Speaking of.

“_Scott_,” she calls, adding a two-note tune to the word. “Olly olly oxen free. Come join me in the study, and do bring my necklace with you, I’ll need someone to help me with the clasp.”

She hears his footsteps, glances over her shoulder to admire the way the light outlines his silhouette. His brothers are all dignified in their own right, but in the shadows, Scott is the only one of them that truly resembles what a Tracy should look like. Dignified. Sturdy. Certain.

“_This_ is why you didn’t bring John,” he says, step, by step, by step. “Because John doesn’t like to join you for this particular brand of adventure.”

“Don’t be silly,” she says, collecting herself. “It’s because John doesn’t like to do up the clasps on my necklaces.”

He steps up behind her, brushes her hair out of the way. She fights off a shiver in this drafty old wing of the mansion, as his fingers graze her skin. It’s him in her ear this time. “What exactly am I helping you do here?” he mutters. “And how much trouble is it going to get me in?”

She turns to face him, collects the remainder of her jewels from him and makes quick work of putting them all back where they belong—picturesque. Stunning. Downright photographable. “Now don’t go asking me those kinds of questions,” she says. “No need to surrender all of your plausible deniability in one go.”

He looks down at her, catches her eyes. “I like to know what I’m plausibly denying.”

“Scott Tracy,” she sighs, her hands landing on his chest. It’s a touch that doesn’t go unnoticed. “All you need to know about tonight is that you’re going to stand here, and if anyone comes this way, you are going to pretend you were kissing me—passionately, instinctually, and with no small amount of tongue.”

“I’ll have you know that I use a perfectly reasonable amount of tongue.”

“And I’ll have you know that I don’t actually care, seeing as you won’t really be kissing me. The clandestine services are fun in that way.”

And she knows that she has him, because that’s just the way the world works. It all falls into line for her. People tell her what she wants to know, help her with every desire, fall over themselves just to hear her utter a single word in their direction. She knows she has him, because she knows Scott, and she knows that he’s never said no to a blonde, and his heartbeat is just a touch too quick beneath her fingers. 

So she glances up at him, eyes as big as she can possibly make them. “I won’t be long at all. Just a quick couple of minutes.” Her hands fall to his waist now, and she clasps them at his back, hangs around his waist like she used to when they were kids. “And then you and I—we are going to spend the night dancing and drinking and eating and laughing, until everyone around us is jealous.”

He seems to hesitate in a thought she doesn’t know, but eventually he nods. Sighs. There’s a slow, thoughtless effort to pull her hands away. “And how could they not be? Fancy food, fancy wine”—he finally manages to take hold of one of her hands, pulls it to his lips and leaves a kiss—”and the inimitable Lady Penelope.”


	2. Silent Laughter

The night is cast in an uneasy haze.

It’s a feeling that Parker has grown more and more familiar with as of late. Not quite like the fog of an early London lake, nor the thickness that accompanies a little too much liquor—although he’s mistaken it for both at one point or another, until realizing that it lacks the same level of tangibility. Somehow, he knows, this is different. This particular haze is a creation of his own mind, of his own heart: worry, blurring the edges of his senses ever so slightly.

He catches a pair of giggles echoing throughout the front garden, rising high above the trickling fountains, the chirping crickets, and all of the conversations they leave behind. Music bleeds from the ballroom and flutters among the weight of the evening air, a breeze blowing long abandoned notes across the mansion’s leftover light. They are not the first to leave, nor are they the last, but they are the happiest because as everyone knows, a good friend can only make a bad party so much better. 

Parker stands obediently at the door of FAB1, shaking himself free of that breathless uncertainty. He keeps a keen eye as his Lady and her Scott merrily make their way down the rocky steps of the estate. Scott has his arm held out to her, like the good lad his father raised him to be, and she leans and laughs at his side as though she hasn’t a care beneath the stars. Both of them are a tad tipsier on their feet than Parker would care to see, especially given the unique requirements of the night both covert and otherwise, but Scott at least seems to have taken good care of her, and she of him. 

“…and that little surprise, with your delectably slow dip at the climax of that tango—_directly_ in frontof the Prince, no less.” Her words are still straight and upright, although her laughter has a bit of a slant. “Absolutely inspired.”

Scott’s speaking something closer to cursive. “_That _guy, was an _asshole_ and s’my job to make sure he knows you’re out of his league.”

There’s always been a certain sense of home about her whenever she is in the presence of those Tracy boys, and that is truest regarding the older two—the ones who have been in her life exactly as long as she has. He sees it in her now. Thoughtless touch. A childlike tease. She does it with both of them. They posses a piece of her and ground her in ways others have often failed to. John, in their shared humor, their logic, their utter lack of expectations. Scott, in their mutual loyalty and craved adrenalin.

“Yes, well,” she says. “They’re all brought up to believe that they’re quite a bit more charming than they ever actually are.”

“He was not charming. _I’m _charming.”

They descend the garden steps deliberately, concentrating on each individual stone. This has more to do with the uneven landscaping than it does the decisions they’ve made throughout the night, but the champaign certainly doesn’t help the situation. It is in moments like these that Parker wishes for John, rather than Scott. The younger of the two tends to bring about a sensibility in the Lady, while the older brings out something unfocused.

“Indeed you are, darling,” she says, steadying herself. “Well, not to me, but perhaps if I hadn’t watched you sling your snot at your brothers in year four, I would be singing a different tune—”

Her words are cut short by the twist of her ankle. The white of her dress fans out around her as she falls, her hands reaching for stability. Parker’s chest fills with that same anxious buzz as he bolts forward, but Scott is already there, and she’s already laughing.

Scott helps her back to her feet. “I dunno why I would sling snot at them,” he says, as though nothing’s happened. “But I stand by my decision, m’sure they deserved it.”

It’s only a few more steps until they reach the cobblestone drive where FAB1 sits idle with its headlights on and GPS ready. Parker pulls open the door as they approach and they each grant him thanks between their laughter. Scott helps the Lady in first, then joins her in the back, and the door clicks shut behind them.

A breath out. A weight lifted. Penelope’s laughter continues muffled behind bulletproof glass and Parker is granted relief from the night’s haze at last. 

There had been a time in their partnership when separation was unthinkable and Parker has always preferred it that way. Her Ladyship has a proclivity for discovering the dangers that come with poking around, sneaking about, and all other acts clandestine, and it’s always been a bit easier to keep her from those dangers when he’s right there—right at her side. Of course, he knows that there are times when it is more convenient to have a dashing young man at her side, and though dashing Parker may still be, he has not been young for quite some time now. Scott Tracy affords her a more convincing cover, more flexibility in her reconnaissance. It’s basic espionage: if ever you want a crowd to forget about a powerful woman, simply place her beside a powerful man.

Scott Tracy is a powerful—and even a capable—man. It is rare to find both in a single bowtie. But not even his company can keep Parker from feeling just a bit uneasy in her absence. He’s always going to be just a little bit relieved to see her where she is supposed to be: in the back of his car, as he keeps a careful eye on his mirrors.

Which is where she sits now. Or rather, lays, heels long kicked to the liner below and legs crossed atop Scott’s lap. The dress takes up more than its fair share of space and she’s already begun to pluck various pins and bobs from her hair, dropping them into Scott’s open palm. It’s dark, only secondhand moonlight to guide their movements, but they don’t need to see each other. Between Scott and Penelope, it’s all history, and predictability, and certainty.

It’ll go the same way it always does, between these two. The night will bring about their most melancholy conversations—words that Parker maybe isn’t supposed to hear, but won’t be told to forget. They’ll fall asleep to the hum of the engine, just like they did as toddlers. Upon their arrival to the manor, Scott will offer to carry a snoozing Penelope from the car, a trait he picked up sometime during his university years and was never quite able to shake, and she will put up no small amount of pathetic protest before ultimately giving in.

He’ll stay the night in the bedroom next to hers. He won’t be there in the morning. Penelope will fall unusually quiet come breakfast.

But for now, “You could marry a prince, y’know, if you wanted to.”

And a smile. “Oh I assure you love, I do know.”

“Just not _that_ prince.”

“Because that prince was—”

“—an asshole, yes. I’m pretty sure I covered that base already.”

“That you did—hold this.” She unstraps a loaded garter from her leg, equipped with a pistol, mace, a pocket knife, and some emergency hair pins. It lands with a heft into Scott’s already overflowing hand, but he handles it with the respect it deserves. 

Her resulting sigh comes from the soul. Another handful of pins and her hair falls into all of its usual places. Like magic, she transforms, piece by piece, bit by bit, a systematic jigsaw of jewelry and knots and all of the other odds and ends that come with her most elegant ensembles. Reflective white lines zip by in Parker’s windshield, a rhythm in the dark, and as each beat passes, Penelope becomes more and more herself.

“Oh!” she says, perking up. “Almost forgot the most important bit.”

She digs around in Scott’s hand, searching. Scott, for his part, is using his free hand to scroll through his phone, the ice of a blue screen frosty on his skin, eyes glazed and disinterested. It speaks volumes to their friendship that he doesn’t even blink at her touch—simply allows her to rifle through the items that aren’t even his to begin with. She’s younger by three years, but she’s always had him in her service. And anyway, it seems like that’s exactly where he prefers to be.

“Ah!” Delight, as she plucks a slim black brick from the pile, holds it up to what little light they share. “The purpose of the evening.”

Scott looks up out of habit, then looks up again out of interest. “Oh my god,” he says. “Is that a USB drive?”

She smiles.

And she has his full attention now, which, as it so happens, is just how she likes it. Parker can see the way she pulls it out of Scott—that endless yearning for more, more, more of his affection. His amazed laugh reads like heaven in her expression. “I haven’t seen one of those in _years_,” he tells her.

Satisfied, she plops back into the bench of the back seat, leaning up against the window in a very unladylike fashion. “Your father did me a great many favors in his lifetime, both purposeful and accidental. Not the least of which was rendering USB ports completely obsolete among the masses.” She turns the drive over in her fingertips, tracing all the smooth lines and crisp corners. It’s as close to a nervous tick as she ever gets. Parker can’t help but steal a glance at Scott, just to see if he notices. But of course, he doesn’t, as dashing young men tend not to do. “Once your father popularized his Digital First platform, everyone shifted their security focus to wi-fi, bluetooth, and the cloud, allowing me and my three terabyte USB drive to waltz in whenever we so please. People have really started to underestimate the power of just walking into a room with a computer.”

And, right on cue, the melancholy. “What’s it say about me that you’re more knowledgeable about the aftermath of my father’s lifework than I am?”

“Oh Scott.” Her voice drips with sympathy. Then, at once, a sharp edge. “I’m more knowledgable about most things than you are, nothing to fret about.”

He laughs, loud and challenged. “Is that right?” he says. “I’d like you see to pilot a craft at Mach 5.”

“Yes, perhaps you do have me beat there,” she allows. “But give me—mmm… a week. Should have it all squared away by then.”

“A week. To learn how to fly. At hypersonic speeds.”

“How hard can it be? You do it all the time.”

It’s almost impressive, the level at which Scott can roll his eyes and not cause himself some form of bodily harm. Parker imagines that this is the sort of skill that one acquires after many years with many brothers. It’s a full-body movement, accompanied by a very ungentlemanly shove that knocks Penelope’s legs from his lap.

And Penelope, bless her, giggles, giggles again, and then giggles some more until it all dissolves into the kind of laughter that starts at the gut, shakes the shoulders, and takes her own breath away. She does, of course, take his shove with a dignified grace, rolling along with it as though it was her idea to fall all along. It leads her to Parker’s side, head poking up between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s. “Parker,” she says, holding the sleek little drive out to him. Her breath smells like money, with floral hints. “I trust you can get this in the right hands.”

Always the observer and never one to comment, Parker allows himself a single, “Yes, M’Lady,” and doesn’t say anything else about the night as he has witnessed it so far. He simply tucks the drive in a safe place and keeps his eyes on the road. 

There’s a shift in her, after that. No longer responsible for classified files, or cover legends, or informant safety—no longer responsible for _anything_—the Lady finally permits the night to slow. Parker feels it leave her, too. The haze. 

And it is a fundamental truth about Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward that in the rare absence of responsibility, she is especially susceptible to all things calming, indulgent, and/or charming. “That was a lot of fun tonight,” Scott tells her, his voice low after midnight. “I’m glad you brought me instead of John.”

She looks up at him, never the fool, but perhaps sometimes a little foolish. “Well you were my first choice, after all,” she says back, and he laughs, because she’s funny, and he’s buzzed, and the night is as dark as ever. “I forget how fun you boys can be, when you’re not too busy saving the world.”

In all of his years spending time in his own shadows, Parker has never quite been able to fully piece together how exactly silence works. Sometimes, it’s an unnoticed buzz, relative to the world around it. Sometimes it’s a dense absence that begs to be broken. The pair currently in his back seat, although speaking and laughing and teasing, still have the feeling of silence surrounding them. As though they might be able to slip into it, if either one of them weren’t so horribly terrified of letting it happen.

“Well, hey. If it’s fun you want, we can make that happen,” he says. “Virgil’s throwing a Halloween party in a couple of weeks. Consider this your official invitation.” He slouches in his seat, crosses his arms into his chest and lets his head fall back. “Costumes, drinks, Monster Mash—the whole kit and caboodle. Gordon’s supposedly got a very good costume, but he won’t tell any of us what it is.”

“Gordon?” The word feels distant and heavy, as though she isn’t well practiced in its pronunciation. Her smile is thin and worn. “How kind of him, to grace us with his presence.”

“Easy,” Scott warns, but there’s no heart in it. He too, lets a tight smile slip through. “Gordon’s been… figuring a few things out.”

“I’d just hate to see you and John disappointed by him again.”

“John and I will be just fine. We’ve got bigger things to worry about than whether or not Gordon came to our party.”

“Alan, then.”

“If Gordon does one more thing to disappoint Alan, then I will personally invite you to his ass-kicking party.”

“No need, he probably won’t be in attendance anyway.”

Scott huffs, even his laughter so close to silence, but not quite there. Then he shakes his head, because he knows that she’s not too far off. She never is. “He’ll figure it out, soon enough. He’s a smart kid.”

Penelope yawns into passing streetlights, adjusts her posture. The night is wearing on her, just in the same way it always does whenever she’s in the company of Scott Tracy. “Well,” she says, closing her eyes. Resting her eyes, she would insist. “For his sake, I do hope he _figures it out_ before Halloween.”


	3. Sunny Side Up

M.

It’s starts with an M.

There are plenty of things that Gordon does know about the guy he’s currently tangled up in, and he really thinks that there’s some credit due. He knows that his favorite drink is a strawberry margarita, salt not sugar. He knows that his favorite song is something trendy and poppy that Gordon doesn’t have a taste for. He knows that he swam the 200IM in high school and he knows that it’s cute he thinks that means something.

The one thing he doesn’t know: a name. Which—_yeah_. Okay. Yeah. It’s not great. But he has the first letter, and that’s, like, halfway there. Or possibly only a fifth of the way there. Unless the guy’s name is Mo.

His name’s not Mo. Gordon wouldn’t sleep with a Mo.

And anyway it’s ridiculous that he could possibly be expected to remember a name when there are so many more interesting things to remember—the crackle in their voices after a long night of singing, shouting, screaming along to the music. The feel of hot, slick hair between one another’s fingertips and the taste of some shitty fruit mix exchanged back and forth. The relief of lips at the softest crooks of his neck, over, and over, and over again. Theirs wasn’t the kind of night that can be wrapped up in a name. The only reason Gordon even remembers his own name is because of the sheer frequency with which it was sighed throughout the night.

Miles feels like it could be right. Or maybe Michael?

The alarm pings from a phone on the nightstand, soft wooden buzzing bringing about the morning for the third time. It’s this hallow, muffled sort of sound that more so leans into clarity rather than starts off that way, pulled like sand from the ether that exists between sleep and awake. Through long, heavy blinks, Gordon feels the glow of the sunrise as it lands across the white of their shared sheets. There’s warmth, stagnant and tranquil, stark against the dewy chill of the room’s cracked window, and Gordon buries himself in it.

The two of them lay as one, neglecting to—perhaps refusing to—stir in the undeniable presence of the morning. Their skin sticks at their thighs. Their breaths align. Gordon’s arm stretches across the nameless boy’s chest, up to his jaw where the pad of his own thumb strokes the scruff brought on by a new day. Martin. Maverick. Marcus.

Whatever. It’s not about the name. Gordon’s so sick of names meaning more than they should—it’s not about what this guy’s name is. It’s about how he feels. How he is. Every single minute that Gordon spends outside of a Thunderbird is wholly spent in pursuit of people who are electric and exciting and endlessly, foolishly brave. Humans, as a rule, don’t get a lot of time to live. He knows that better than most. So he’s going to spend as much time feeling alive as he possibly can, with people who bring it out of him.

This boy makes him feel alive. In all of the ways that are important.

The alarm continues to chime, and Gordon hates to feel the shift of the blankets as the warmth pulls away, taps the phone into silence once again. There’s a steady stream of chirping that washes over the room, interrupted only by the call of a single mourning dove. He’s reminded of what his father used to say, about early birds, but he’s never cared much for worms anyway.

When the warmth returns to him, settling clumsily at his side, he lets himself believe that maybe they could just stay. That maybe if they just kept laying here, together, then time would just, like, chill the fuck out for a minute. He could finally catch his breath, feel like he’s above water for just once in his life, and then he’d get back to it. Back to all the living that doesn’t feel nearly as alive.

Except now there’s a kiss on his forehead, lingering and loving, and Gordon tries to claim ownership of the feeling it leaves in his throat, but he senses that this particular letter of admiration is instead addressed to the dawn. Not really meant for him. He rolls deeper into Mason, Mateo, Mark’s shoulder. “G'morning.”

The voice is low in his ear, gruffer than he remembers it being. “Mmm…mornin’.”

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good, n’you?”

Absentminded fingertips graze across Gordon’s arm, and it’s exactly the kind of shit that got them here in the first place. A loop around the shoulder, a pass down to his elbow, up, and down, and around, following that deep blue vein straight down to his wrist, slow, spinning circles in his palm, then back up to his shoulder to start all over again. He’s flirting with the edge of goosebumps, never quite falling into them, but desperate to jump.

He knows a lot of things about the guy who currently has his arms around him. He knows that his kisses come generously, that his hands move gently, that his breath in Gordon’s ear sounds the way wind looks in long, unkempt grass. As the crisp air crawls more and more into bed with them, Gordon knows that he’ll be thinking about this night long after they roll to their feet.

“It got a little cold last night.” Gordon grumbles. “But you’re nice and warm.”

Gordon’s lips land at the spot nearest to him, the edge of the collar bone, and he inches once, twice, three times, leaving a line of lazy pecks from chest, to neck, to cheek. Malcom still reeks of tequila and dancing. His smokey cologne has turned stale. Memories of a vibrant night have long since faded in the sun.

And it gets to the point that he can’t help it anymore—that a surrender to the morning feels worthy of a glance at the boy beside him. He blinks. Once. Twice. The night has left a crust in his eyes, but Gordon hardly notices. Hardly has the time. There’s so much more to take in. Short blond hair tangled and matted against a makeup stained pillow. Long lashes looking up at the ceiling above, catching the light from the window and shimmering like the abandoned glitter shared between them. His nose has such a unique outline, big and crooked and bumpy, and Gordon remembers the feel of it beneath his own lips. Scruff settling along the rest of his features; pink lips, long ears, strong jaw.

Fuck. He’s beautiful.

Max, Magnus, Mick. Gordon wills the name to come to him, yearns for its certainty. None of them feel quite right. Micah, Mitch, Murray—no, he definitely wouldn’t sleep with a Murray.

The names are quickly interrupted. “I had a nice time last night.”

Gordon laughs, sinking into the bed. “Yeah, I know you did.”

Melvin’s laugh is much more subdued in the morning, caught up in groggy half-dreams and a thick tongue. Gordon would give just about anything to make him laugh the way he did at the club—loudly, deeply, and with reckless abandon. The kind of sound that people are afraid to make, but ache to hear. It had soared above the relentless bass and had broken through the endless chatter. Gone was the functional need to get closer, closer, closer, just to hear his voice, drawing Gordon in on desire alone.

He wants that again. Wants to take it as his own. And it’s absolutely true about Gordon that people think he’s funnier when they’re already three drinks in. He knows that. Which is why he’s personally of the opinion that everyone should always have a few drinks in them. This morning has mimosas and a 2000 calorie pile of carbs written all over it. “I’m thinking we hit that diner downstairs for breakfast?” he says. “Spare you the embarrassment of making me scrambled eggs and have a professional make them sunny side up like God intended?”

The back and forth of Mitchel’s fingertips gradually lightens until it’s not there at all. His hand favors fistfuls of his own hair instead, pulling, pulling, pulling puffs out of bedhead. “I, uh, actually should start getting ready for work,” he says. “But there’s some… yogurt? If you’re into that?”

“Greek?”

“Strawberry.”

“You really are a strawberry guy, through and through, huh? Interesting.”

“Is it interesting?”

“Everything about you is interesting.”

And there’s that laugh again—the morning one, not the night one—as Morgan slinks out of the sheets, finally and fatally betraying Gordon to the cold once and for all. “You’re cute,” he says. “God, you are cute.”

“And don’t I know it,” is Gordon’s reply. “You know, you really should be careful handing out compliments like that. It’ll go right to my head.”

There’s a stretch, and something that might pass for laughter if Gordon didn’t already have the better stuff memorized by heart. “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” he says. “But, uh, hey. I need to take a shower.”

“Do you need help with that?”

“Help?” It really just isn’t fair, the way his eyebrows work. Expressive and certain. Dark. Gordon’s always envied people with dark eyebrows. “With a shower?”

“Just wondering if you need anyone to come with you.”

“Oh,” Marcel clears his throat. “No, I think I’ve got it. Uh, but do you have any money?”

This is the type of question that, for a number of reasons, sparks a little flame at the base of Gordon’s gut. He’s not always aware of it, not always present in his own anger, and if not caught in time, it’s the kind of thing that can catch fire and spread throughout his entire body. Yes. He has money. Why is that important? How much of it do you need? Why is it that all of his actions end up feeling more transactional, the older he gets. “Money?”

“For a car,” he says. “I’m gonna go take a shower… and you’re gonna grab a car? Or were you—?”

“_Oh_.”

Well. At least it’s not a money thing.

It is instead far worse. It’s a Gordon thing. A _him_ thing. A gross misjudgment of the current situation that Gordon now finds himself in—and Gordon makes a living out of expertly assessing situations.

Although he does seem to miss the mark, with these sorts of things.

Maddox winces. Like actually, visibly winces. “I’m sorry, did you think—?”

“Nope!” but the sheer ferocity with which Gordon pulls his jeans over his legs tells a different story. As does the red in his ears, the heat in his voice, and the scrambled collection of miscellaneous belongings. “No. Same page. _Totally_ same page. Already called a car.”

“Fuck, did I—?”

“Spare me,” Gordon says. “I don’t even remember your name.”


End file.
